Work Text:
His body is equipped for all manner of altercations. He’s survived skirmishes that would have killed him a hundred times over as Genji Shimada, younger brother of Hanzo Shimada
(as a human being)
Wounds and damage, actual physical risk to himself, are things he doesn’t really have to take into account any more. His targets were hardly well-equipped to fight off an assassin who couldn’t be harmed by conventional means, and what he couldn’t shrug off he simply dodged around. Killing before they had a chance.
His body forgets the scars placed on it.
But his mind remembers.
(Zenyatta would say that they are injuries dealt to his soul rather than a body that, mostly, no longer exists in its original state. A year ago, he would have said it was ridiculous; they were occasional phantom twitches, broken connections hallucinating they still had places to sit that were flesh and blood. That was what the doctor had said.
Now, he would not reject such an idea.)
He thinks he needs to sleep; so he does.
His sleep is - restless.
He is human again (Hanzo’s younger brother again), young and reckless, admiring his own reflection in windows he passes by. Laughing, smiling. Perfectly dodging around passerby, listening to the sounds of Hanamura, sounds of the crowds he’s known all his life.
In this dream, he forgets everything. He is young, smiling. Life couldn’t be better.
The glass he passes by is dark, and reflects him perfectly. As he goes, it splinters; so too does his reflection. At first it’s merely distortion, strange ripples in the glass; when he looks again, there’s blood, bone, wounds. Each crack in the glass tears into his skin; the air stings on cuts that weren’t there before.
Something, despite his instincts, tells him to step closer, to investigate. He looks closely, reaches out (some part of him wavers; his fingers are bloodied, broken, whole, robotic--)
--Hanzo is there, in his reflection, behind him. He is not fast enough to turn around and confront him before the pain begins in earnest; his voice shatters like the glass he stands in front of. He chokes; there is a metallic taste in his mouth.
He turns, anyway, somehow, despite the pain that riddles him, the wounds that appear. The scene changes.
The sword shines, dull metal in firelight. The bright sunlight is searing heat; the chatter of people around him melts into the roar of a fire. Hanzo’s eyes gleam with something that he has never feared before.
(Hanzo was always more determined, more resolute. He had admired that fire in him, that drive; his older brother, a dragon among dragons, he had always joked. But it had been a joke born of affection, of love; while Hanzo had that quiet steeliness, Genji was vibrant, cheerful, playful. Sunlight and hidden flames.)
Now the fire all around them is in his eyes, too. Sadness does not override duty. Duty shows no mercy.
A dragon among dragons, he had said once. But this one has teeth, claws, a cleansing flame.
The fire screams (or maybe it’s just him, screaming). The dragon roars. The sword is its teeth; it bites into arms and legs, eating him alive-
“Genji.”
He jerks awake, visor flaring bright green, to the sound of Zenyatta’s voice, soft and worried. He thinks that something has happened at first, but he realises that perhaps he was moving in his sleep, or doing something.
Zenyatta’s hand is on his cheek, the other on his shoulder. Wordlessly, he turns his face into the touch, seeking something more soothing. The pain of the dream echoes in his body; for a moment he feels vulnerable again. For a moment he is breathlessly afraid that this, too, is just a dream; that the omnic and his gentle touch will melt away into fire and pain as he relives again and again the worst moment of his life.
“It is always the same.” The voice is so soft, cracking and vulnerable, that he barely recognises the words as his own. He knows Zenyatta would not begrudge him contact, would not think less of him, but he makes another vulnerable sound, hating himself for it (is he really so weak?) as he drags himself up. His movements are hesitant as he leans into the omnic’s arms, resting his head on Zenyatta’s shoulder. “This-this dream.”
He hates himself even more for his dependencies; his tension melts away at the feel of the omnic’s arms around him, a gentle embrace. His arms are around Zenyatta’s waist, more for his own comfort than anything else; the omnic is an anchor.
(It shakes him how much he has come to depend on Zenyatta. He doesn’t know what he would do without him, now.
He wonders if Zenyatta feels the same, then dismisses it. He rolls over like an eager puppy for the slightest sign of goodwill and affection, it seems. Zenyatta wouldn’t do that.)
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
His almost-reply is a ‘no’, but -- if he doesn’t tell anyone, he will probably do something rash. And surely, surely, he can trust Zenyatta.
(It’s not the issue of trust - well, somewhat. But he’s afraid of what will happen, if he opens up more. He is - not an omnic, after all. Something messy and in between, something mangled and bloody and raw on the inside.
Doesn’t Zenyatta deserve better? Even he has his limits, surely. And he is on a journey of his own. He has no reason to stay as long as he has, no reason to take care of some broken weapon.
Will you leave me, too?)
“...I always dream, about...”
Genji exhales, hard. His vents steam gently, clouds puffing out in the chilly air; it’s still quite cold at nights. Summer is still far off. His voice is quiet.
“I had a family once. I was -- I was human. I was...a younger brother.” He doesn’t know why he’s beginning like this; it’s a reaffirmation of his own identity, the one starting to trickle back
(the one he cannot escape, the one that sinks into the cracks and seams and vents of his body)
“I was Shimada Genji -- once. Once. I was happy. Foolish. I didn’t have a care in the world.”
Some part of him takes in the delicate parts of Zenyatta’s neck that he can see from his position, the slight movements he makes to account for Genji’s weight, to support him. The omnic is always supporting him.
“My brother, my father - I looked up to them. My father loved me, and my brother -- well. I thought he loved me. I certainly loved him.”
He doesn’t laugh - maybe, at another time, he would have recounted it bitterly, and laughed, but he’s too emotionally exhausted to laugh.
“He meant so much to me. We were -- opposites. He took things so seriously, and I did not, but our bond was strong - until our father died, and Hanzo...Hanzo did his duty.”
The taste of the word is bitter in his mouth; it stirs long-undisturbed resentment in his soul.
“He took advice from the clan’s elders. They considered me...a liability. A foolish son who had no right being even considered to be a heir of the clan. That is why-- I am like this. Why I had to be reconstructed - I am dead. Should be dead.”
His arms tighten around Zenyatta. Even now, it hurts to speak of it (though, had he really spoken of it before? This is the first time he’s confided of it to anyone).
“Instead, I am this thing...that is neither human, nor omnic. A-a shell. A ghost.”
“That is not true, Genji.”
“How can it not be true?” Genji is startled enough that his head comes up to look at Zenyatta directly.
“You are not dead. You are as warm as any human, or any omnic. You have kindness-”
“I do not-”
“You do,” the omnic states firmly, hand moving from Genji’s shoulder to his chest. It hums faintly with Zenyatta’s own energy signature, warmth against warmth, reaching the core - reaching his heart.
“Weapons do not have kindness,” Genji says, but his voice is -- weaker, he thinks.
(He is so weak for these simple gestures.)
“But you are not a weapon, Genji. I do not think weapons make flower crowns, or pray, or laugh - and I know you can laugh. I remember-”
“In winter, yes,” Genji breathes, like he had just been reminded.
“In other times, too. You are too harsh on yourself, Genji. Your soul wants to heal and become whole. The way you respond is the proof of that.”
“I don’t understand,” he murmurs, soft; the green glow of his visor is dimming. Now that the panicked energy rush of the dream has started to wear off, his brain is starting to become tired again.
“You do not have to understand it all at once. We have plenty of time.”
“You are not -- you have other business...” The protest is weak.
“I will not leave you, Genji. My ‘business’, as you call it, is to help others. And you are certainly someone who needs my help.”
The cyborg merely nods, tightening his grip just a little around Zenyatta’s waist. It’s nice -- to feel secure, for once in his life.
“Can I stay--”
“Of course.” Zenyatta holds him close, and he drifts back into sleep, oddly soothed by the hum of the omnic’s systems.
He does not dream.